Page 59 of With One Kiss


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“He’s gone out too.”

I counted to ten. It didn’t help. “Open the door, or we’re done.” Had I really thought I might be falling for him? It just proved how poor my taste in men was.

“I’m sorry you feel like that.” Mac sounded genuinely sad. “I always knew it was a risk, but sometimes you have to not be selfish and do the right thing.”

“Not selfish? Right. Because this is what’s best for me.”

“An hour,” Mac said. “And then I’ll let you out.”

“An hour!” An hour was a lifetime in the company of my father. It was possible one of us would have killed the other before the hour was up. I tried a different tack, softening my voice. “Listen, Mac. I appreciate you’re trying to help, but this isn’t the way. Open the door and we’ll talk about it.”

“One hour.”

I slammed my hand against the door again and unleashed a stream of uncomplimentary French. It might have helped me to express myself better, but it was lost on Mac, more’s the pity. I would have liked him to take on at least some of the sentiments.

“Use your time wisely.”

Now he sounded like a damn fortune cookie. “I regret ever letting you fuck me.”

The sound of a low chuckle had me turning back to my father. It had been years since I’d heard him laugh. Possibly even going back to before my mother had died. “Not just a friend, then,” he said. “But it doesn’t sound like wedding bells are on the horizon.”

“They’re not,” I admitted. “He’s straight. Or he was straight. He’ll be going back to London soon.” Now my father was facing me, I could see how unwell he looked. Red-rimmed eyes, a sheenof sweat over his forehead, and pronounced trembling, all classic signs of alcohol withdrawal. “You should sit down.” It reflected how crap he felt that he didn’t argue, sinking onto the end of the bed and holding one shaking hand with the other to still it.

“When did you last have a drink?” His expression when he glanced at me said he was searching for the daggers in my enquiry. “Just a question. You’re obviously going through it. I’ve seen you like this before, but not for some time.”

“A day and a half.”

I lowered myself to the opposite end of the bed. If we were going to be stuck in here for an hour, I might as well make myself comfortable. “Why go that long?”

“Your friend told me I needed to be sober.”

A laugh bubbled out of me. “And you are, just because he asked you to be. Wow! I knew Mac was persuasive, but I didn’t know he was that persuasive. He needs to get a job in rehab. In fact, they can probably do away with rehab altogether, and he can just tell people to stop doing whatever it is they’re not supposed to be doing. Super Mac to the rescue.” My words had been loud. I hoped he was listening at the door. Maybe if I could rile him enough, he’d come in to remonstrate with me. It wasn’t likely, but I could dream.

“You think I want to be like this?”

The word ‘yes’ hovered on my tongue, great restraint needed to hold it back. “I don’t know. You’ve done rehab twice, and both times you started drinking again almost immediately. That doesn’t exactly scream of somebody who doesn’t want to drink.”

My father shook his head, his expression pained. “I tried to stop drinking. But… it’s hard. I’m fifty-seven years old. I’ll be sixty soon. I have no job, no home, no money, and one son who can barely stand to look at me. Why would I choose to be like this? It’s an addiction. It’s…”

“I know how addiction works, but if you’re looking for me to make excuses for you, you’ve come to the wrong person.”

“You used to be kinder.”

“I used to be stupider. Then you robbed me one too many times.” At least my father had enough shame to flinch at that. “Even that last time, you took a bottle of wine.” I plucked his wrist off the bed, the bones beneath my fingers feeling far too fragile, and forcing me to fight the urge to drop it like it was a hot coal. I knew he was too thin, but knowing it and feeling it were two different things. I gave his wrist a little shake. “And where’s the watch I gave you? If you’re not stealing stuff, you’re letting someone else steal it.” Point made, I placed his hand gently back on his knee.

My father reached into his pocket, the watch lying in the center of his palm when he pulled it back out. “I decided I’d have more chance of keeping hold of it if I didn’t wear it. People take stuff they can see. It’s rarer that they go through your pockets. It takes longer, and it’s harder to explain away if anyone catches you at it.”

I stared at the watch, seeing it not as a timepiece, but as a symbol of how quickly I jumped to conclusions. Was I that eager to think the worst of my father? I had no words for a moment while I struggled with my thoughts.

He put the watch back in his pocket and stared straight ahead. The trembling had lessened somewhat, but I had a feeling that was only because he was doing his utmost to control it as much as he could. Silence filled the room, as noxious and cloying as any toxic gas. I checked my watch. Fifty-five more minutes before Mac opened the door. It may as well have been months.

My father cleared his throat. “I know you hate me, and that I have no one but myself to blame for that.”

“I don’t hate you.” I glanced across at him to see how he’d take my declaration. He didn’t seem to know what to do withthe information, his throat working. “I don’t. You’re my father. I hate what the alcohol has done to you, what it’s turned you into.” I sat forward, finding it much easier to stare at my hands than at him. “I used to have this dream…” The words got stuck in my throat, refusing to be dislodged.

“A dream about what?”

I took a deep breath in and then let it out again. “That one day I’d stumble across a time machine, or that someone would invent one. The practicalities of how it would come to be were sketchy. All I knew was that I needed one if I hoped to put things right.”